It's at this point when I'm stressed and my ADHD has scattered my thoughts enough that people usually question how I was bright enough to get into medical school, but he chuckles. "Mypeoplewere always businessmen. Far less interested in the concept of share and share alike. Until my father took over asPakhan, I doubt the concept of a charitable donation had ever been floated within the Morozov Bratva."
"Well, I know Bellevue Hospital is certainly grateful you changed your philanthropic stance," I say. "I looked up the ten million dollar donation you made, by the way. Your family funded the new high-risk maternal clinic. That's just so…" I put my hand over my heart. "That kind of generosity certainly balances some karmic scales."
"My soul is pitch black," he says. "There's no amount of money to redeem that. My mother, though… Dmitri's smile lights up his handsome face. "She was so happy when the clinic opened. Something that wasn't emergency surgery, or sewing up bullet holes. A place to bring life into the world, rather than taking it out."
Stripped down from his expensive Gucci suits, lounging at the counter in sweats, Dmitri doesn't look sin-stained. He looks kind. A son genuinely pleased that he made his mother happy.
***
"You have a giant-ass sparring gym in yourpenthouse?"Dmitri takes me down the hallway, past our bedrooms to yet another hall that ends at this gym, two walls of floor to ceiling glass looking out over the city with piles of mats, a speed bag, weight benches, and a treadmill. Theobsceneprice of New York square footage and he has a gym in his penthouse.
"I work out a lot when I can't sleep," he says, throwing a few more mats on the floor, spreading them out. "My brothers and I hold thinly disguised business meetings here where we work out our disagreements by beating the shit out of each other."
So, tender Dmitri who loves his mom has left the building.
"Uh-huh… remember that I'm not built like a tank like you Morozov men, okay?"
He doesn't laugh. He's all business now. "What did they teach you at your Y self-defense class?"
"Well, a lot about being aware of your surroundings," I say a little defensively. "Being assertive."
He looks at me for a long, uncomfortable minute. "I'm sure that's helpful for normal street crime, but for a highly organized trafficking ring intent on recapturing you, I think we need to aim higher. We'll start with a few moves that will work best for you," he says. "A bite-sized thing like you isn't going to overpower anyone, so you need to learn how to make momentum work in your favor. Let's start with the throat strike." Settling me on the mat, he goes through the moves with me, easily and infuriatingly pinning me down every time I think I've weaseled loose.
"Water." He hands me a bottle. "Finish it."
"Has anyone ever told you how bossy you are?" Still, I gratefully gulp it down.
"Everyone has," he says. "We're going to work on getting past a move meant to take you down and using the energy to flip them instead. Your assailant is less likely to anticipate it. Speed is important, and that's one of your strengths."
"After the 'bite-sized' comment, that's gratifying to hear," I say dryly.
The summer sun is sending long shadows over the gym as we practice the same goddamn thing, over and over again. Dmitri barks things at me like, "Muscle memory!" and "Anticipating the charge!"
Every time my back hits the mat, I'm missing my time at the Y with Miss Monica more.
"You didn't look to your left again," Dmitri leans over me, hands on his hips. He's barely broken a sweat and I look like I spent the afternoon in a steam room.
Angrily scrambling back up, I take a step and wince.
"Did I hurt you?" He reaches out, concerned. I yank his arm forward and flip him over my back, exactly like he taught me, enjoying the satisfyingwhack!as his back meets the mat.
"You cunning little vixen!" Dmitri says approvingly, rising up on his elbows. "That convincing little limp? Nice. Now try it again."
We circle each other, hands out, eyes narrowed and something pulsing between us, something hot, heavier, and dark. When he charges me, he flips me easily, but I hook my leg around the back of his knee and he falls with me, rolling so that I land on top of him. My breath leaves me in a huge huff.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I thought I would make a better crash pad than I did."
His teeth are so even and white… There's a grin stretching across his handsome, stubbed face. His warm hand runs up my back before sliding down and cupping my ass.
"Is this okay?" he says, his voice a rasp.
My mouth opens and closes like a dollar store goldfish before I recover the use of speech.
"Yes."
Chapter Twenty-One
In which Dmitri's cock is like Mt. Everest, you have to climb it, even if it kills you.
